Godspeed
by Peahopeless
Summary: Gordon Deitrich was never executed by the Fingermen. And this is why... This story is from early in the PEAhopeless timeline. Story rated M for crude language and instances of violence.


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**Disclaimer:** As always, they're not mine and never will be. These characters and places belong to Alan Moore, DC Comics, Wachowski brothers, and Warner Bros.

**Author's Note:** This is one story of many (over 100) that are written in a timeline format. Not all of these stories have been posted on this site yet (some of them -- rated for adults only -- will never be posted to this site), **but all of my stories -- including those not posted here yet -- have been posted on my aol website.** Just click on my username for more information on how to get to my homepage, or do a search on PEAhopeless V for Vendetta Fan Fiction on the internet.

**Special notes:** This picks up, in the movie, just after V captured Evey outside Gordon's home. Remember the raid by Creedy and his men? Gordon was black-bagged and V caught Evey after she climbed out of an upper-story window and dropped to the ground? For those who've already read later stories, **this** is why Gordon is still alive. This is how he was saved from Creedy.

Recall that V was in a ski-mask at the time, and Gordon was zip-tied ... that shrill sound after Creedy's men pushed him to the floor.

Car boot - car trunk.  
Wheel clamp - what's called a 'boot' in America what they put on a car tire to immobilize the car.  
Sausage jockey is a derogatory term that I do NOT approve of, but I'm trying to be authentic with regard to Creedy's men.

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**Godspeed**

This had to be done.

This was for her own good.

This was, as far as V was concerned, the necessary and long overdue rescue of Miss Evey Hammond -- -- in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with all those Fingermen crawling about Gordon Dietrich's property.

She lay in his arms as light as a feather, the chloroform having taken full effect. It was for the best, because with no sights, no sounds, and no sensations, she would likewise suffer no fear. ... ... The surprise midnight invasion; her drop from a considerable height; and his own appearance as the 'evil captor', sealing her fate within one of those infamous black bags ... had all been very uncontrolled moments of terror. Events that made the heart race with uncertainty. -- -- Even his own heart, when he'd realized Evey had made her dash out of an upper-story window. That wasn't quite how things were supposed to have gone.

But that part of the equation was now back under his control ... and she was safe. Her life would be guaranteed by his own, even while he saved it. -- -- Tonight, and in these next days to come. As much as part of him dreaded the events that would soon transpire ... still ... for now, he would breathe a sigh of relief.

He took her quickly to a nearby automobile, left there by Gordon, but officially unrelated to the showman. V had affixed a wheel clamp to its tire, even adding a few faux parking tickets to the windscreen. ... That car was going absolutely nowhere tonight.

With the girl suspended in one arm he popped open the car boot, then carefully positioned her inside. ... It was wrong in so many ways, and he knew it. But it was for her own good. ... ... He would follow through.

... ... And time was running out. Creedy's men had loaded Gordon into one of the armoured vehicles. -- -- Quite roughly, too. Even from many metres away, V could hear his associate's surprised howl of pain as the butt of a rifle was jammed into the back of his leg. The defeated prisoner had begun to collapse, giving the soldiers an easy excuse to throw him bodily in through the doors.

Vile, vicious creatures. ... ... It was the most polite description V could think of for these brutal criminals who pretended to 'defend England'. Their prisoners were no longer human as far as they were concerned. -- -- An attitude born, bred, and bolstered by Larkhill.

Looking down, V checked on his own quarry, ensuring that she would not be injured when the boot was slammed closed. He would return for her as soon as he possibly could. But for now, he had his hands full.

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"God damn I hate these night runs," swore one of the Finger's black-clad soldiers, seated inside the small black government vehicle, as it sped through the long black shadows of after-curfew London. "Middle of the fuckin' night, every fuckin' time!"

They were racing toward Finger headquarters -- seven soldiers escorting their latest prisoner. Seven soldiers to guard the bound, bagged, subdued and broken enemy of the state. -- -- It did seem a bit much, but it was rare that they took someone quite so famous into custody. Boss Creedy wanted the situation dealt with quietly, quickly, and cleanly, minimizing any explanations the BTN might have to make to the public.

Three units had been called in for this midnight raid, and one of the senior members looked down at his plaintive, whining comrade. It was a new guy, from a different unit, recently transferred in from Sutler's perimeter guard.

"Don't be such a pussy," the senior member admonished the freshman. "Just be glad you're goin' home early. You could be stuck back there on clean-up detail."

"Yeah," chirped up another soldier, wobbling expertly on the bench-seat as the vehicle rocked and rolled. One could tell he'd been through this many times before, and was not the least bit intimidated by the 'celebrity' they had onboard. "And this one's a live one. We've got us some entertainment for this trip, boys. Come on 'Deeter'," he taunted, leaning forward toward the prisoner -- allowing his voice to carry all the menace that Gordon would need to hear. "Do what ya do on that talk show of yours, eh? Chew the fat? Or is it 'chew the dick'? I hear the second is rather a 'specialty' of yours."

"No, man, you gotta be shittin' me!" exclaimed the freshman. "He's a sausage jockey?"

"Come on, it's no secret," senior guy shot back sarcastically. "Trick number one -- read the damn reports. Or doesn't your team do that? No wonder you arseholes were late tonight."

"Hey, hey," interjected the smart aleck who had delivered the news. "We're wasting some valuable time here."

It was then that a small, sliding door snapped open, in the divider between driving cab and cargo bay. A tightly screened window was revealed, and through that, a glimpse of the driver.

"We've got a problem," he announced, sounding most annoyed. "The old Quigley factory is on fire. Looks like we're getting detoured." ... Indeed, sirens were now blaring just outside, and the driver was heard to swear. ... "Shit. Hang on guys, I'm goin' back past the train yard."

They lurched to the left, then took a hard right ... the easiest route around the giant blaze. Inside, the soldiers rocked with the motion, then settled back into their taunts of the captive.

"Alright, alright," continued smart alecky guy. "How 'bout if I do the interviewing tonight. Yeah, pretty boy?" ... He shoved Gordon's knee -- -- just a friendly reminder that they weren't anywhere near through with him. ... "Now how did a fairy like you get such a cushy job? Which BTN boys ya been blowin'? Come on, you can tell us," ... his grin took on a menacing tilt, and he glanced knowingly toward his senior comrade. ... "We'll be sure to give them your regards when it's their turn."

The prisoner: said nothing; only swayed to the side as they climbed a steep incline.

The driver: was busy watching the road, not particularly enjoying this alternate route -- -- especially without the advantage of daylight.

The senior: let out a deep breath, wishing, probably, that some of the younger ones would learn a little more aloofness for this type of work.

The freshman: yawned, clearly in want of his bed.

The smart aleck: well he just kept right on grinning, planning his next humorous moment.

And three remaining soldiers simply held their seats, choosing not to become involved.

... ... One of those, in particular, was quite busy rubbing at something on the side of his rifle. Cleaning away some blood, maybe? He rubbed and rubbed; intent on his task.

... ... He did glance up though -- just once -- just briefly -- reddened and badly scarred eyes peering out through the ski-mask. A calculated risk, to check that his black-bagged friend was holding up. A moment of genuine empathy and support, even though Gordon would not see it. The prisoner was doing exactly as he'd been instructed. -- -- Being passive ... being quiet ... hopefully trusting in his undercover, masked friend.

So far, they were barreling along exactly the route V had chosen -- that Quigley factory having lit up like the dry matchstick he'd known it would be. ... These bends in the road, he recognized. This hill, he recognized. And there would be two more turns yet -- the second one banking along the edge of a large carpark, beyond which lay one of England's most expansive train yards. ... ... Yes, everything was going exactly as planned.

"Damn, you got nothin' at all to say for yourself?" taunted the smart aleck. He gave Gordon's knee another rough shove. "Cat got your tongue? Or have you been too busy using it for stuff I don't want to know about?"

On that, with almost serendipitous timing, they veered toward the right -- -- and thus was V's cue. Gordon's 'tongue' had nothing to worry about. It was smart alecky guy who should have known better to hold his own.

The rifle with which V had been averting his eyes clattered to the floor. In these tight, heavy metal quarters, bullets were far too risky. Much more appropriate were the two daggers he now yanked from his boots. And in a motion the others could barely even see -- let alone believe -- he stabbed the first blade deep into that bastard's neck.

"What the ..." the senior soldier had just begun to shout, when V pivoted, and a second slice was taken through the air. This one opened the throats of two soldiers to the prisoner's left -- the least suspecting of which being the entirely dumbfounded freshman.

Blood splattered, hitting Gordon with a sickeningly solid splash. Instinctively he tried to curl in on himself, spurred even further by V's gruffly barked, "Stay down!" ... ... He'd guessed this was coming, just hadn't known how or when. Hadn't even been certain if V had made it onto the vehicle, or if the would-be saviour was plotting from some hiding place beyond. ... ... Now the moment of truth was here, and all Gordon could do was try his best to avoid a flying blade. -- -- Maybe it was a good thing he'd been robbed of his sight.

Another soldier lunged forward ... one of the quiet, though certainly not shrinking men. He tried to block V with his rifle, but the dagger chosen for him was moving way too fast. It plunged into his gut, lifting him right off his feet and skewering him against the sturdy, metal ceiling.

It had been a matter of only seconds, but the driver realized there was more than fun and games going on behind him. "Hey! Hey!" he shouted, trying to control the heavy vehicle through a sharp 'S' turn, all the while glancing over his shoulder. "What the hell's goin' on?!"

The only proffered reply was the senior soldier's grunt, as he swung his rifle violently toward the intruder. It was meant to crack V's skull at the very least, but would instead be commandeered for the hero's own use. ... ... "Thank you," V actually stated, as he grabbed hold of the rifle butt. And soon it was no longer the soldier who was swinging the weapon, but the weapon that was swinging the soldier. Senior soldier slammed so hard into one wall that he actually left a dent, then slumped like a rag doll to the floor.

The rifle continued on its journey, V jamming the butt right through that little window's protective screen. Frantic, the driver scrambled for his pistol -- giving up the steering wheel in favour of somehow saving his own miserable life. He just wasn't fast enough though. -- -- V's hand shot through, grabbing and cleanly snapping the frightened man's neck.

Overall, V had estimated both the timing and the route remarkably well. They careened head-long into the large carpark, having at least a good hundred metres before any of the few, scattered automobiles could present an obstacle. ... They'd be alright for a moment, but not much longer.

Immediately, V flung himself toward Gordon. The prisoner was halfway onto his side -- -- practically thrown from the seat already, hanging on as best he could with his hands zip-tied stiffly behind his back. ... ... V would have to take the brunt of the impact himself.

Above Gordon's head ran a series of metal cages. Storage bins for any number of weapons and supplies. The hero dug his fingers in between the wires, hanging on for dear life while he hooked his feet onto a bar beneath the seat. ... A fence. A human fence, through which Gordon certainly could not fly.

At last, one unlucky car was singled out, the armoured vehicle broad-siding it to send them both into a spin. Gordon screamed, to which V commanded a loud, "Stay put!"

... ... Not that the showman could actually control such a thing. He slammed against V's front while another dead body slammed against V's back. Still though, the hero held fast through two more uncontrolled pivots, and a final, deafening crash against another parked car.

"Oh God, oh God," Gordon began to rattle, the silent courage he'd been forcing to the surface cracking at long last. "Oh God, oh God."

"Gordon, get a hold of yourself!" V demanded impatiently, as he moved quickly to retrieve his daggers. It would not be long until the appearance of more soldiers. -- -- Even if no one from the train yard had heard the collision, there were always the GPS trackers affixed like barnacles to most of these government vehicles. ... "We've stopped. We're safe. And everything is on schedule."

The doors were easily kicked open -- easy for V at least -- and he hurried his friend along by the arm. "Jump," he instructed. "No more than half a metre. Jump!"

Gordon did as he was told, his sore leg buckling when he hit the hard asphalt. V righted him; turned him; then lifted his wrists into the moonlight to reveal the constricting zip-tie. One swipe of the dagger was all it took.

... ... V did not, however, remove that horrid black bag. In fact, he gripped the base of it quite tightly -- -- preventing Gordon from stripping it away; preventing Gordon from even turning round again.

... ... Even in the familiar darkness of night -- V's natural world for decades -- everything looked different when not seen through the filter of black eyescreens. He was vulnerable without the true Fawkesian mask. ... He felt it. He knew it. ... Just from those strips of red, angry skin that rimmed his unprotected eyes. ... He was vulnerable.

Had Evey seen? He didn't think so. She'd been too traumatized ... unlikely to absorb any information beyond the simple fact that she'd been captured.

Had the guards seen? It didn't matter. If hell existed, they were now meeting up with creatures far more ghoulish than a horribly disfigured freedom fighter.

But V had no desire for Gordon to see. ... Not Gordon. Not one of those few people he counted as a friend on this earth. ... ... This was likely to be their final parting, as Gordon raced toward the freedom of Europe, and V raced likewise toward his own chosen destiny. Couldn't this last memory at least be saved from the ugliness behind the mask?

"Your bags are in storage unit 'D'," V relayed. "There are two unique identities, exactly as we discussed."

"Passports?" Gordon asked. "Government ID badges?" ... He shook his hands to return their circulation, then cringed when he brushed against his own shirt. It was sticky and cool. Heavy, and even stiffening in spots.

... ... Blood. ... So much blood.

"Yes, yes," V assured. "Everything you will need. Disguises. Supplies. As well a train schedule even more detailed than any from British Rail. The freight train to Leicester will pick up cargo here within the half-hour. You must be on it. Then Doncaster. York. The route we've planned."

"I know," Gordon nodded, just briefly against the bag. "I know. I have to clean-up first though. They'll smell me out for certain as I am now."

"Your three changes of clothing are included," V allowed, "but you must move quickly."

"Understood," Gordon replied, the adrenaline from these last nightmarish minutes finally beginning to abate. His thoughts were collecting again; looking beyond the fright of nearly losing his life. "You're going back for Evey?" he asked hopefully. "You did find her, didn't you?"

"Evey is safe for now," was V's assurance. "But I must retrieve her before they deduce that she was present within your home."

... ... And despite their dire circumstances, a silent, tense moment passed. A moment during which Gordon would form the inevitable, unavoidable question, and V would search for a way to soften the most truthful reply.

"What are you going to do?" Gordon asked softly. ... Carefully.

... ... He knew that his dark friend was angry with Miss Hammond -- -- he'd heard it bubbling up behind the mask on a number of occasions while they'd planned and plotted this entire fiasco. He knew also how thoroughly Evey had betrayed V's safety -- -- and how strongly V felt about justice.

... ... But he knew, too, that there was something else at work here. Something beyond the stone-cold stoicism traditionally presented by Fawkes's unyielding grin. ... ... Gordon could only hope it would surface -- to at least temper the haunted vigilante.

"I'm going to help her," came V's genuine response, tinged not with bitterness, nor anger, nor even veiled threat. It was, however, extremely resolute. As if accepting one's role whether one liked it or not. ... ... "I'm going to teach her. I'm going to watch over her. And I'm going to help her."

Within the bag, Gordon bowed his head solemnly ... knowing it wasn't the full truth, but hoping it was at least enough to be relied upon.

"And if I am lucky," V continued, "if the fates deign to humour my wishes, then it will be up to you to help her as well. ... When this year is over, it will be up to you. ... And that is yet another reason, friend, that I wish you Godspeed."

With that, the bag was suddenly released; the pressure of a hand removed from the back of Gordon's neck. ... ... "But what is that supposed to mean?" the showman began, turning before he'd even thought to remove the black covering. And by the time he yanked it away, he was alone -- the only trace of V being the sound of high-speed, running footfalls, and a shadow disappearing behind a distant automobile.

"What ...?" Gordon mumbled to himself, scanning his surroundings while his eyes adjusted. ... ... Even moonlight seemed bright, after being held for so long in the blackness.

But he didn't have time, did he? For much of anything at the moment. ... ... No time to consider more questions, nor even decipher what few answers he had. ... Low, resonant horns bellowed in the distance. Trains arriving; trains departing; and a train he would need to secretly board.

... ... Quite soon, too.

He spun around again, making sure that there were no more soldiers lumbering toward him. No guns trained or black bags raised. -- -- He would remember tonight for the rest of his life, most likely in the depths of his worst nightmares.

... ... Assuming he had 'the rest of his life'.

... ... He really didn't have time. ... He had to go.

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**Footnotes:** Question: Why did V then lie to Evey, about Gordon having been executed? Answer: Because he was protecting Gordon and Gordon's whereabouts. Evey had just come out of 'prison', and V had no real idea what she would do or how she would react. One important step was to keep her off of Gordon's trail, so that no matter how she reacted, she wouldn't say the wrong thing, ask the wrong questions, or try to search out Gordon herself.

Question: Where was Gordon? Answer: Europe. Further details later as I figure them out. One thing I'm still trying to decipher is how long he's known Christian, though I think Christian and Gordon were both art collectors in the 'art ring' that V was supplying. I'm not sure when they officially 'hooked up' though ... before or after Gordon's return to England, post-revolution.

Question: Was that really Gordon then, at the fireworks over Parliamant? Answer: No, Gordon was still out of the country until a short time after the revolution. His appearance at the fireworks was still metaphorical, as it was with Valerie/Ruth/the young girl/etc.

**Author's Note:** This is one story of many (over 100) that are written in a timeline format. Not all of these stories have been posted on this site yet (some of them -- rated for adults only -- will never be posted to this site), **but all of my stories -- including those not posted here yet -- have been posted on my aol website.** Just click on my username for more information on how to get to my homepage, or do a search on PEAhopeless V for Vendetta Fan Fiction on the internet.


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